Inn on the Edge (6 page)

The next morning, Sunday, we met our fellow guests.

But we were late. And it didn’t happen quite like we’d
expected. A rapping on the door awoke us—a very persistent rapping, peppered
with annoyingly cheerful greetings. “Good morning! Good morning! Breakfast
already started! Come on down. It’s a beautiful day at the inn! Come join us.”

I groaned.

“Angela! Joshua! Everyone’s waiting for you.”

I yawned hugely. What was so important about breakfast? I
already knew Josh and I weren’t getting a prize. We’d quit the game the night
before. Who was at the door? It didn’t sound like Zenith. Maybe it was the
aforementioned Zora? I buried my head in my pillow, willing her to
go away
.
She didn’t. She tapped again and again, determined. I squinted in Josh’s
direction. Squinted, because light was streaming in through all those enormous
windows the old man had warned us about.

Josh’s eyes were puffy. He turned to me, whispering, “It’s
like what—four o’clock in the morning?”

“It’s after eleven!” called the voice. “Rise and shine!”

“Okay! We’re coming,” I called. Then I lowered my voice.
“Zenith. Zora. What’s with the stupid ‘
Z’
names, anyway?” I stretched.
Yawned. “Does your name have to start with ‘
Z’
to work here? That’s so
screwed up.”

“Get up! Get up!” cried our human alarm clock.

“Zarathustra,” whispered Josh. He gave me a sleepy kiss,
then called out toward the door, “Good morning yourself! Unlock the door,
please. It’s stuck! It wouldn’t open last night.”

“Zelda,” I whispered back.

“Zorba.”

“Za… Za… Zo…” I made a
harrumph
sound. “Dang. I can’t
think of any more.”

He yawned. “Zoe. I win.”

The door opened and a curly-haired blonde woman stuck her
head in. “Still in bed? My goodness, you two! I’m Zora, by the way.”

Josh sat up, baring his naked chest. “How did you open it?”

“This old thing?” Zora rattled the doorknob. “Don’t worry
about it. Doors around here can be temperamental. Especially when it rains.”

“Oh,” Josh said, but he didn’t look convinced.

I sat up too, clutching a handful of blankets to my chest.
“We don’t like being locked in,” I explained.

“Well, it’s open now.” She closed it and opened it again.
“See? No problem. So are you getting up?”

“We’re getting up,” I said, nodding. Then, under my breath,
“Do we have a choice?”

“Wonderful! Don’t forget to turn off your cell phones and
leave them in the room.” The door closed.

I stretched.

Josh yawned.

We were still half asleep. We’d slept—what—three hours? Two
and a half? It didn’t matter, though. We weren’t going back to sleep. We
weren’t going to be allowed to go back to sleep. I might have been perturbed by
that, but I was too darn tired. My entire body ached gently, sweetly, a
reminder of my first night as a married woman. I turned toward Josh, smiling,
flushing, enjoying the sight of his naked chest and shoulders. I especially
liked the line of hair that meandered down his belly toward “Twinkie and the
bon-bons”, as we’d dubbed his cock and balls the night before. During the fourth
time we’d made love. Or had it been the fifth?

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi yourself.” Josh looked at me
that
way. He
grinned. Leaned in to me and nuzzled my neck. “How about a quickie?”

The door rattled sharply. “Hey!”

Startled, Josh and I flew away from each other and stared
wide-eyed at the door.

“No time for that!” yelled Zora from the other side. “You’re
already late!”

Had the woman been listening? We burst out laughing. “Okay,
Zora,” I said, “we’re coming. Really we are.”

Josh drew me into a tight hug, kissed me, then let me go.
“Just as well. I’m starving!”

Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs. How could the inn
be so much bigger than I remembered? The stairs were wider, more gracious than
I’d realized, like those in an elegant old southern mansion. The banisters and
handrails were carved from luscious dark wood. At each landing, halls headed
off into other parts of the inn. I longed to explore, but as Zora had
mentioned, people were waiting for us. A series of narrow tapestries hung on the
wall beside the stairs, beautiful things, artworks almost, made of tiny silk
tufts. I peered closely, admiring the exquisite work and wondering how many
hundreds of hours it took to make such precious things—until Josh tugged
impatiently at my arm. “Come
on
,” he said.

Sighing, I followed him down the stairs. “So beautiful, so
beautiful. It makes me want to paint. Those colors! I’m so glad you brought my
case.”

“Good. I smell bacon.”

“And coffee,” I said, sniffing.

We went down to the landing—the second one—and started down
another flight of stairs. We passed a round window with a stained-glass image
of a lighthouse built into it. “Look at this,” I said, pausing. “It’s clever.
The sun streaming through the window makes it look like the lighthouse is really
working.”

Josh stopped walking. But he wasn’t looking at the window.
“Angie,” he said quietly.

I turned around.

“Do you…feel that?”

“Feel what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Something in the air. Like the hairs on
the back of my head are standing on end. Like something is breathing down my
neck.”

I stared at him, worried, my hand clutching the smooth
railing. Josh slowly turned in a circle, rubbing frantically at the back of his
neck and raking his fingers through his hair. He peered into the ceiling high
above us and leaned to look over the railing and craned his neck to search the
corners. I did too. What had my husband so spooked? I believed him—this place
was weird enough that I’d believe almost anything—but there was nothing out of
the ordinary. Nothing that I could see, anyway.

He shuddered. “I don’t like it. It’s…cold. Clammy.”

“Ugh. Sorry. I don’t feel anything.”

He took the stairs two at a time to the next landing. He
waited for me to catch up. “It’s gone. There’s nothing here. Whatever it was,
we’ve passed through it.”

We looked up the stairs toward the stained-glass lighthouse.
I’d been right. The sun did shine through the window, through the prism built
into the top of the lighthouse, reflecting a bright dot of shimmering light
onto the wall next to where we’d been standing. It was pretty. I thought I
might like to drag my painting supplies to the landing—later, after we ate—and
make a study of this section of the staircase. “Sure you’re okay?” I asked,
tilting my head to the side, squinting, already making compositional decisions
about how I would portray the scene on canvas.

“I’m hungry again. Does that tell you anything?”

We started down the stairs again. I followed Josh through
the parlor with its fireplace and beautiful paintings, following tantalizing
aromas toward a room beyond. Something caught my eye. I pulled on Josh’s arm.
“Look! A new painting, over the fireplace!”

Josh sighed, clearly irritated—he was famished—but the
painting caught his interest too. “A guitarist!” he said, surprised. “Playing
her instrument. You don’t see that often, do you? Hey. This picture wasn’t here
last night, was it?”

“I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t.”

He squinted. “Is that a Ramirez guitar she’s playing?”

“Let’s get closer.” I was more interested in the artist’s
use of negative space than in what type of guitar she was playing. Could there
be
a painting better designed to captivate us both? I didn’t think so. We walked
toward the fireplace, peering up at the artwork, but I stopped short a few
steps away, a sick feeling in my gut. The patch of floor by the fireplace
was…wrong.

All wrong.

“Hold it,” I said to Josh, tugging on his arm. “Something
isn’t right here.”

“It’s like the stairs,” he whispered, “only more so.”

We froze in place, our senses on alert.

The air crackled. Ozone sizzled in my nostrils. The hair on
my arm stood on end. Josh reached for my shoulder. We both jumped at the
popping, stinging shock when his hand made contact with me. We hesitated,
alarmed, the intriguing painting forgotten.

“Josh,” I whispered. “Let’s leave. Right now. I don’t like
this.”

“Neither do I.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about our
luggage?”

“Forget the luggage.”

“What about my prize?”

“Josh!”

“But we’ll lose the deposit!”

“Screw the deposit.”

He took my hand. “Yes. Let’s go, then. Follow me.”

The front door was on the other side of the room. We’d only
gone three steps when the old man from the night before stilled our flight. Where
had he come from? Somehow, impossibly, with a quick sideways step he was
standing
directly in our path
.

Josh lurched, trying to keep from treading on the old man’s
slippered toes.

I gasped.

“Now, now,” the old man crooned, “Angela. Joshua. What seems
to be the problem here?”

“We…uh, want to leave,” I said.

“We do,” echoed Josh. He cleared his throat.

The old man’s hand brushed up and down my arm. I frowned and
moved out of his reach. “You don’t really want to go, do you? You’ve only just
arrived.” He sounded hurt.

I stared at him, frowning.

“Come now, join us for breakfast.” The old man tried to take
my hand. I brushed it away. “At least stay for breakfast.”

“Josh,” I said, “let’s
go
.”

We skirted around the old man, threaded our way past couches
and end tables and Persian carpets and a grand piano. We passed the lectern. We
crossed the last few feet of the lobby. We held tight to each other’s hands,
our eyes on the door.

But again the old man stood in front of us, blocking the
way.

Impossible! He’d been behind us!

I gaped, blinking, clinging to Josh. How had this ancient,
decrepit man managed to beat us to the door? How? How had he passed around Josh
and me, to stand in front of us,
without us noticing
?

Suddenly I was frightened. Very frightened.

Josh took a deep breath. “Let us pass, old man.”

“No.”

Josh moved to the side, to go around, but the old man blocked
his path.

They stared at each other.

“Move,” said Josh.

“No.”

I stepped forward. “Let us out!”

The old man looked down at me. “Again, no.”

Josh and I were a united force. We held hands and faced him.
“Angie and I are leaving,” Josh said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Get out of our way.”

The old man gestured to the door. “Try. If you insist.”

Josh rushed forward and tugged on the handle. The door
didn’t open. Fuming, he swung around to face the old man. “It’s fucking
locked
!”

“Must you use such tasteless language, Joshua Taylor?”

I pulled at the door, but of course I did no better than
Josh had.

“You locked us in our room last night!” accused Josh,
pointing his finger at the old man. “Admit it! That door was not stuck
.
And now you’ve locked us in the building. I will not be locked in. Let us go.
Unlock
the door
.”

The old man didn’t unlock the door. Instead, he reached out
and laid a cold hand on my arm, and on Josh’s. We flinched, cried out,
shuddered, but we just stood there, frozen, and let him trail his long fingers
softly up and down our arms, patting, caressing, soothing. He touched us both,
but it was me he stared at. It was me his eyes roamed over. Me he licked his
lips for. Me who received the extra attention. Me.

“Better?” the old man asked, leaning close, so close that
his robe brushed my leg, so close that I smelled his peculiar cinnamon scent
again.

I blinked.

I
was
better. He was right.

Then I frowned, confused. Why had I been trying so hard to
escape? Really, there was no need. It was quite nice here. I loved our room in
the North Tower. I’d adored the sex game, was hoping there would be more. So
what was the problem? A locked door or two wasn’t anything to worry about. “I’m
fine,” I mumbled.

“Joshua?” asked the old man, taking his eyes from me.

Josh shifted his weight to the other foot. Cleared his
throat. Looked at me, his brows knitted. “Umm. We’d still like to go, if you
don’t mind.” He glanced sideways at the old man, a quiver in his voice. “Open
the door for us? Please?”

“You still wish to leave?” said the old man. His hands
dropped from our arms. “I am heartbroken to hear it.”

We nodded. Or at least Josh nodded.

The old man’s face fell. “Do you not like it here, Joshua?
Did you not enjoy my North Tower, Angela? Or my games of welcome? Did you not
play them? I conceived those amusements especially for you, my dears.” He
sighed, and it was a heavy, hopeless thing. “Oh my. And I tried so hard to make
your stay a memorable one.”

His eyes—so sad! So painfully, wretchedly disappointed.

It made
me
sad, just to see them.

“Surely you will want to stay long enough for breakfast? My
breakfasts are truly spectacular! What a shame not to partake.”

Josh shrugged. He eyed the door.

“Are you not hungry?”

I smelled the coffee again. My stomach rumbled. “
I
am.
I’m hungry.”

“Good girl! Then you shall eat.”

But Josh was still looking at the door.

“Come now, young man! Why such a hurry to leave? People
these days rush about like so many worker bees.” The old man smiled tenderly at
Josh, then took his hand. And Josh let him.

I peered at the old man, confused…did he look different this
morning? Did he seem less ancient than he had last night? A bit less hunched
over, perhaps? Was it possible? I narrowed my eyes. Did his skin show fewer
ravages of old age? Did he seem more agile? Not to mention his mad dash to the
door a moment ago.